


Now is the Hardest Test

by liketheysay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: But also tired of his shit, Drugged Will Graham, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Fix-It of Sorts, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Happy Ending, M/M, Will is... learning to love Hannibal?, dubcon touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27004072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheysay/pseuds/liketheysay
Summary: When the bullet tore into Will’s shoulder, when he dropped to the ground in a spray of his own blood, he thought— of course. Of course this is how the game goes. Had he forgotten the rules? Was he so naïve?What exactly was going through Will's head after he was shot by Chiyoh outside of the Uffizi gallery and taken to Hannibal's Italian hideout? Confusion, acceptance, resentment— perhaps love?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, hannigram
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	Now is the Hardest Test

**Author's Note:**

> It's been SO LONG since I've written a fic! I'm not terribly happy with how this turned out, but I'm incredibly happy to have written it. I hope you enjoy :)

Chiyoh. It must have been Chiyoh— maybe on a balcony, maybe the roof. All Will remembers is falling hard on cobblestone, Hannibal’s silhouetted frame hovering above him. Did Hannibal know? Did he and Chiyoh meet before the Uffizi, before he and Will sat in front of the Primavera? Did he plan on disarming Will right then?

Will thought they had shared something genuine, it was real. He remembers how real it felt, for once, to lay his eyes on Hannibal as if for the first time. He looked serene, despite the layer of messy cuts and lacerations. And despite all Will thought he knew, it felt _good_ to see Hannibal there studying the Botticelli, as if they had planned this meeting years in advance— here is where I will give my heart to you, here is where we will meld together as one.

But Will was wrong.

Betrayal was something they could understand, an elaborate language whispered in a cathedral built just for them. Betrayal and forgiveness— a violent cycle. When the bullet tore into Will’s shoulder, when he dropped to the ground in a spray of his own blood, he thought— of course. Of course this is how the game goes. Had he forgotten the rules? Was he so naïve?

Will fluttered in and out of consciousness as Hannibal carried him back to an ornately decorated Italian apartment. He didn’t question it. Shoots of pain raced up and down his arm as hot blood spilled from the mouth of his new wound. He breathed in Hannibal’s smokey cologne and felt a somewhat welcome sense of relief and comfort at the pressure of Hannibal’s firm touch. It had been so long since he felt Hannibal so near— when could the last time have been? Hannibal spoke of God, of forgiveness— _You forgive how God forgives._ Yes, Will thought. Is there any other way for us?

Suddenly he felt the quick sting of a needle, an increasingly familiar sensation. Hannibal’s figure slowly disappeared into the scenery, golds whirring with deep red, shadows throbbing in the corner. Sleep was heavy behind his eyelids. 

_Let go..._

Then— a swell of peace, and breath, and light. He was sitting at Hannibal’s dining room table within the domy white dreamscape of their ever-growing memory palace. Except this time Will wasn’t quite sure where they were, but it didn’t matter. Hannibal was making dinner, two glasses of wine awaited them on the table, the heavy scent of butter hanging in the air— this was a home of sorts.

They talked. It was so effortless. Each vowel bouncing off the bright white arena that surrounded them, every metaphor sinking effortlessly into the next. Here, the constraints of everyday life seemed to lose all relevance. They could exist without fearing misinterpretation.

When Will woke up, he felt Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him from behind. As Hannibal retreated, Will realized that he was locked into place, fastened tight to a chair with thick straps. It didn’t make a difference. Even if Hannibal had let him sit willingly, he had no plan of escape nor a genuine desire to flee. But the drugs Hannibal gave him surely didn’t help with the whole thinking rationally thing.

He watched as Hannibal appeared and disappeared from his line of vision. He took great care in arranging the table just so, lighting the too tall candles, placing a small wooden box by the windowsill. Hannibal turned to him then, curious.

“How do you feel?”

Will did his best to give a noncommittal shrug. The small movement stung deep in his shoulder. The pain traveled down his arm in waves.

“Well,” Hannibal said, “I take it you haven’t eaten. Lucky for you, I’ve just begun dinner.”

Will didn’t care. The drugs had calmed his nerves and put him into a numb and pliant stupor. If Hannibal wanted a verbal sparring partner, he should have thought ahead.

Hannibal placed a bowl of thin soup on the table along with a single spoon and white cloth napkin. He pulled the heavy dining chair alongside Will’s and sat down, unfolding the napkin as he would smooth an irksome wrinkle on his suit.

“I don’t indulge in regret much, but I am sorry to be leaving Italy,” Hannibal spoke pensively. “There were things in the Palazzo Capponi I would have liked to read. I would have liked to play the clavier and perhaps compose.”

As Hannibal spoke he calmly prepared a spoonful of the soup for Will, blowing gently on the hot liquid and cupping his hand just below the spoon should any spill.

Hannibal paused for a moment as he reflected on a version of events that could have been. 

“I would have liked to have shown you Florence, Will.”

Will wasn’t really listening. He was giving everything he had just to keep his head up, let alone muster the courtesy to swallow Hannibal’s soup.

“Soup isn’t very good,” he muttered.

Hannibal chuckled at his frankness, “It's a parsley-and-thyme infusion, and more for my sake than yours. Have another sip, let it circulate,”

Will felt something rise up in the pit of his stomach in response to this subtly threatening admission.

“What are you going to do?” Will managed to ask.

He might as well let Hannibal have him. The only disappointment he felt was in not having another move to play. Will would at least have liked to see this coming.

“You are going to greet our guest. Be a good host for me, Will. I’ll only be a moment,” And with that Hannibal dropped to his knees, draping the heavy white tablecloth above him. Before going under, he eyed Will from this new position.

“If you’ll excuse me,”

Will watched as Hannibal climbed beneath the table looking as dignified as one can be while on all fours.

Will waited— confused, numb, but alive. Jack would soon be here and he had no plan. It seemed so long ago, in another life almost, that Will had not known whom to play against, whom to play for. Even now, after all this time, he begrudgingly considered whose side he was on, if any.

He dreaded Jack’s arrival in more ways than one. There was no doubt in Will’s mind that Hannibal planned to kill Jack after some show of theatrics in which Will was likely made to be a part of— something akin to what their last supper would have been back in Baltimore, except this time Will wasn’t an active participant. He had lost that privilege. 

At that, Will felt a creeping sense of regret itching to be acknowledged. They could have escaped together, they could have left everything behind. And Abigail… Abigail could have survived them. Will swiftly blinked the nagging thought away. That memory would have to be placed elsewhere for the time being.

For a while, it was as if Will was alone in this grandeur— the table settings arranged by him, the dim lighting to his pleasure, the thick scent of melted butter still hanging in the air. It wasn’t until he felt a slight movement against his left thigh that he stepped back into reality…

Shortly after there was another little brush against his leg, this time with more intent. Something was being transcribed and it was up to Will to interpret. What could such small pressure lead into, what was behind this gesture? The curiosity of the moment was striking.

Will wondered for a moment whether he might be imagining the slow touches, but they gained on him despite his muddled state.

Hannibal was up to something. What was in that box by the window? How did he find himself groomed and in fresh clothing? Another touch. Should he reciprocate? How? Will sat in an agonizing stupor, managing to forget about Jack Crawford entirely until he heard footsteps in the hall.

For an instant he believed he might be rescued, but he knew better. The look on Jack’s face as he entered the room betrayed this naïve thought. Hannibal would always have the higher ground.

Much to Will’s amazement, Hannibal did not stop communicating under the table even as Jack neared. With one long exhausted breath, Will managed to mutter a simple warning:

“He’s under the table, Jack…” 

And as if on command, Will felt a sudden _squeeze_ on his thigh in response. In an instant Jack was down with a hard thud.

In a way, Will was glad. He had come to this moment in the guise of an unwilling participant, but he was too curious about what might happen to stay away even if he had the choice. 

Hannibal soon rose from the floor splattered with Jack’s blood— or maybe it was Will’s. Dizzied, Will watched as Hannibal grabbed a heavy handled knife from the counter and hit Jack over the head with it. Easy.

Hannibal worked swiftly and skillfully, only taking a quick moment for a single glance in Will’s direction. They both needed approval somehow— recognition— for in that glace they might glean some sort of understanding. But Will could offer nothing in return but a groggy half-lidded stare.

Soon enough Jack was positioned at the opposite side of the table, strapped solidly in place and heavily drugged. Will imagined he must look the same exact way. It bothered him to know that he and Jack were in mirrored positions at the hands of Hannibal. He didn’t like being treated with the same sense of artless pragmatism, free from ambiguity— drug and tie up this one, drug and tie up that one. It was too easy. What was he missing? And what was he expecting, special treatment?

“What’s on your mind, Will?” Hannibal’s voice nearly sounded earnest.

Will must have looked visibly preoccupied with his thoughts, but he remained quiet as he let his gaze fall upon Hannibal’s hands. To Will’s dazed surprise, Hannibal was passively fidgeting with his fingers, his thumb brushing against the other in a lulling loop. He had never seen Hannibal exhibit any nervous tics before now. He had always appeared so sure of himself. Watching Hannibal’s hands now was… enchanting, in a way. Like he was peeking behind the curtain. Perhaps he was not as self-assured as Will imagined.

“I wonder…” Will drawled, “Have you finally given up on me, Doctor?”

Hannibal thought for a moment, restless hands held on a pause. He looked mildly offended but considered the question, given the circumstances.

“Not in the slightest. I have always wanted what’s best for you, Will,”

Will snorted at that. He couldn’t help it.

Hannibal smiled, intrigued. “You don’t believe me, I take it?”

“Would you believe me if I said I did? It’s obvious you think you’ve done what’s best for me, Hannibal, just so long as it fits your agenda,”

“I don’t lie to you, Will. You asked me not to,”

“And you listen to me _so_ well,” Will conjured any sarcasm he had left and threw a cheeky smile in Hannibal’s direction. But Hannibal looked less amused now. He turned toward the windowsill and placed his hands on the wooden box.

Jack stirred for a second, mumbling in his induced sleep, but he remained unconscious.

“Do you want to know what I had planned for you, Will?”

“Had?” Will furrowed his brow.

“It seems my plans have evolved, just as yours have,”

He picked up the box and set it down in front of Will, then took a seat beside him.

“When you sat down next to me in front of the Primavera… you smiled at me, as if you were pleased to see me,” Hannibal’s eyes focused on the wooden box, intentionally avoiding Will’s curious stare. 

“I think in a way, I was,”

“Keeping me in your sight allows you a sense of control, of dominance,” Hannibal’s voice lilted at the end, almost as if he were asking Will to validate this notion.

“Maybe,” Will confessed.

Hannibal leaned forward slightly and flipped the lid of the box open, letting Will peer inside. Hannibal watched Will’s face closely, expecting it to reveal some sort of disgust or betrayal— but there was nothing. Just acceptance.

“If we are to be truthful, Will, I would have killed you and reveled in the act. I would have fed you to Jack Crawford. I would have eaten you and held the taste of you on my tongue forever,” Hannibal was practically goading Will on, tempting him to act out, to do something, anything.

But he didn’t. He inspected the cranial saw for a moment, then idly returned Hannibal’s stare.

“When I visited your childhood home, I would often find myself looking up at the night sky. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same,”

Hannibal’s eyes softened at the sentimentality.

“I believe some of our stars will always be the same. You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my beginnings. No one has made that journey and returned to me,” he replied.

After a moment, Hannibal looked down at the constraints he had fastened around Will. He stood up from the table and began to loosen each strap until Will could wiggle his arms just barely. Of course, the drugs would not completely wear off for an hour or so anyway. They both looked up at the opposite side of the table where Jack seemed to be coming to.

“Have your plans for Jack Crawford evolved, too?” Will asked.

“He isn’t fully awake yet,” Hannibal replied.

“What are you suggesting?”

Hannibal glanced at the window, casually searching for a glint of light atop one of the buildings.

“If Chiyoh isn’t already in the building then she’s likely watching us through her crosshairs as we speak. She could handle Jack,”

“Handle as in…”

“She is capable of protecting him, if that’s what you think is best. Although if Jack tracked you here, I’m sure he’ll find you again,”

“I don’t want Jack dead,” Will pointedly replied.

“There was a time you believed his death was preordained,”

If Will had the strength he would have rubbed both hands across his eyes in exasperation.

“I might not have been entirely truthful that night,”

Again, Jack stirred sluggishly. He rolled his head forward then back again, eyes still closed.

Suddenly, Hannibal pulled Will’s chair back somewhat forcefully and kneeled in front of Will, hands resting on either side of the seat.

“Will,” he said in an urgent near-whisper, “You need to decide now. Come with me. We'll leave Florence tonight and figure the rest out as we go. Or you can leave as soon as the drugs wear off. But I will be with you until then, if you want me to,”

His eyes were the clearest Will had ever seen them. Flustered, yes, and urgent— but full of hope and a desperate fondness Will couldn’t quite place.

Perhaps it was the drugs still working their way through his system, or perhaps it was the exhaustion of the days prior catching up with him that afforded Will the courage to let his body fall forward onto Hannibal’s, his cheek pressed against Hannibal’s awaiting shoulder.

“Where to?”


End file.
